


For Good

by Conversity



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aggression, Ceremonial robes, Culture: Including, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Pon Farr, Possible Bones/Jim/Spock in the future, Pre-Reform Vulcan, Primal Vulcan Spock, Protective Spock, Relationship Issues, Self-Hatred, Telepathic Bond, Vulcan Culture, War Paint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conversity/pseuds/Conversity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jim has been taken hostage on a planet, Spock, who's on the eve of Pon Farr, uses long forgotten, pre-Vulcan means to retrieve him. In the aftermath, Spock must learn to live with his wounds and figure out how to fix his relationship with Jim, who has finally seen his savage, Vulcan capabilities and seeks Bones for comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Good

Earth date September 15th was usually spent basking in the heat of shared bedsheets, legs entwined, fingers knit together, with their faces close as words were breathed between them. Spock would spend extra time tracing the long scar spanning Jim’s chest, his nose pressed against his mate’s soft, bared throat as he remembers that first Pon Farr in the sands of his home-world.  


Jim, spread on his back against the pillows, would smooth his hands through Spock’s hair and whisper that it wasn’t a big deal; it’d been years, all was forgiven. But he never argued when his mate finger fed him special meals in bed, the scent of massage oils mingling with the tangy flavors as Spock kneaded the tight muscles in Jim’s back. There were bouts of tender love-making woven between Jim napping while Spock kept watch, eyes lingering on the golden lashes, the dark freckles on his rounded shoulders, outlining the chords in his neck and collar bone, the fine muscles twitching in sleep. He was alive, was breathing, and Spock delighted in the sluggish pulse he felt in Jim’s wrist, like a livewire coursing between them.  


But today, their bed is empty and cold, the atmosphere stifling in its hollow weight as Spock dons a ceremonial robe passed to him by his father when he turned of age. It was to stay in his closet, a reminder of his people's once destructive history, the dressings of a warrior on the hunt, and its only now, in the haze of his heat, that he finds it befitting. He’s already crushed charcoal and water into paste in the granite mortar at his elbow and uses his fingers to line his cheeks and eyes in thick, grave sweeps. There’s a slight quiver to his hands as he passes the sheers through his hair, which he denies is due to nervousness, clipping until his pointed ears are prominently displayed, bangs tamed away from the slanted eyebrows. Spock scratches at the itch of stubble he’s neglected over the last few days but doesn’t move to shave, instead shakes the loose hair from his shoulders and takes stock of himself in the mirror.  


The man staring back is disheveled and regal, the image pleasing yet grotesque as Spock makes his way solemnly out the door, pausing only to grab the silver case from atop his bookcase.  


In the transporter room, Mr. Scott and Nyota are standing close behind the console, their worried expressions reflecting in each other as they speak in hushed tones until Spock whirls in, a flash of ebony and ire. Uhura swallows back her surprise at Spock’s choice of dress, the pre-reform robes bright in their antiquity, her eyes taking in the predator behind the war paint and anger. His eyes are sharp as he cuts his gaze to Mr. Scott and demands to be beamed to the prearranged coordinates, the heavy folds of his warrior’s robes shifting with his impatience as Scotty begins to input the data.  


Uhura is drawn toward Spock, as if he’s a star made singularity, his gravitational pull unescapable. Careful not to smudge the paint on his cheeks, she cups his tight jaw in her palms and challenges him with her own strength.  


“Bring him back,” she orders tersely, noticing the stiff set of his shoulders and the glint of sliver inside the breast bindings of his clothes. “Bring him home.”  


He doesn’t need to answer, the threat of anything less lays in the fury of his dark eyes, and then he’s being broken into particles, the transporter picking up his signature and scattering him onto the planet below, seeming to take the air in the room with him as Nyota fights to breathe once he disappears.  


“Don’t worry, lass. The Commander isn’t some nymph; he’ll be able to find the Captain. Not even an army of beasties could have a chance against him.” Scotty watches as Uhura steels herself and turns back to him, face unreadable.  


“It’s not him I’m worried about,” she confesses, striding out of the room and back to the bridge.  


\-----------------------------------------------------------  


The planet’s native name is incomprehensible in most dialects, including Standard, and in turn the black market traders simply refer to it as Nowhere. There was little reason for interest in the speck of rock, its largest landmass a thicket of uncharted jungles wreathing the mountains, the indigenous tribes enslaved a millennia before and used as miners of whatever resources could be wrung from the world. But at the heart was a city shrouded in the universe’s most shady practices, from alien trafficking and slave trade to illegal arms dealing and drug rings.  


Its place outside of Federation space meant that there was little to do about passing regulations, but when a young ensign from the USS Reliant had gone missing during shore leave and his tracking device placed him on the seedy planet, Starfleet had a reason to slip in.  


The Enterprise was not the only ship in orbit, and Jim wasn't been the only Captain to beam down to the palace where Nowhere’s dictatorship ruled.  


“Search wherever you wish,” Baneesh had blithely stated in accented Standard, his seven fingered hand waving lightly as if to dismiss them. He was the newest leader after assassinating the last one, and Pike suspected he would be done away with before the month was up if the bitter Orion chained to his throne had any say in the matter.  


A week’s worth of searching hadn’t gotten them anywhere, until Jim had suggested impersonating a savvy, off world drug lord and weaving himself through the chain of spoiled mob bosses and gang leaders, undoubtedly gaining their trust and uncovering were Ensign Vance Caughley had been spirited away to. But three days into the investigation, Jim and his away team had been ambushed, slaughtered with crude 20th century weapons that had left their bodies almost unrecognizable in the mess.  


The only clue that it wasn’t Jim’s guts smeared all over the walls was the numb, tingling fear that kept flaring in Spock’s mind when he reached for the bond they shared. It was that feeling which kept him coherent as he felt the stirrings of his Time begin to smolder in his belly and it was the same feeling which Spock followed as he rematerialized beneath a flickering street lamp and began to weave between the shadowed figures in the dank alleys. No one dared stop him as he rounded the corner and drew the hood over his head, sensing he was close to the domicile where Jim was being kept.  


Two guards stood watch at the doors atop the marble steps, drawing their rapier like weapons as Spock ascended the stairs with ease.  


“The Master expects no company!” One said in deplorable Klingon as his partner readied to strike, but Spock’s phaser fire was too quick, dropping their dead weight effortlessly.  


Inside, the parlor lead directly to a sweeping staircase, the white walls trimmed with gold, the air rank with blood and the sweet smoke of piped tobacco. He followed the scent up toward the second floor, eyes alert as he passed locked doors and ignored the faint moans lingering in the halls.  


At last, Spock turned down the corridor and found a curtain of globules clicking in the wind of an open window, the scent of his mate honey thick as he drew back the hanging beads with careful hands.  


\-----------------------------------------------------  


“CMO’s log, Geoffrey Jabilo M’Benga reporting in place of Dr. McCoy. The patient is reacting well to the doses of-“  


“How can you just call him ‘the patient’? It’s Jim, his name is Jim,” Bones bites, interrupting, his eyes lined with sleepless nights as he holds his best friend’s unresponsive hand and presses a hypospray to the roped vein.  


M’Benga sighs, unimpressed with his colleague’s attitude, but unable to snap anything back.  


When Spock had commed back to the Enterprise, demanding to be beamed aboard, his voice was unrecognizably rough, startling the bridge crew. Acting Captain Sulu had called for security to meet them in the transporter room while First Officer Uhura began a message for Pike. He’d want to be here for Jim.  


Together, with Nurse Chapel and a few others left to prepare Medbay for any number of tragedies, M’Benga and Bones sprinted to the Transporter, ill-equipped for what awaited them.  


Leonard’s haunted whisper of ‘My God’ had given him goosebumps as M’Benga tried not to cough up his stomach at the stench of the room.  


Curled around Jim’s broken body, Spock was a disarray of smeared paint and carnage, teeth bared and bloodied, the savage shadow in his one good eye unwavering as if he meant to tear apart the crew around him as well.  


Lieutenant Rand gave the silent order and her security team raised their phasers, poised on Spock’s movement as he heckled them, drawing Jim’s limp limbs closer to himself, glaring and spitting as if he was rabid.  


“Security, out.” Leonard barked, but the team didn’t budge. “If you shoot, I swear, he’ll be like a fox in a hen house.”  


“He’s clearly a threat,” Rand pressed her finger against the hilt of her phaser to check the safety. “I won’t leave until the Commander is detained and back to his normal self.”  


Jim whimpered, incoherent, no doubt waking from whatever drugs swam in his system, and Bones was moving forward as if a man possessed. M’Benga grabbed for Bone’s arm when the doctor dropped to his knees in front of Spock, but didn’t catch him in time as Spock growled low, a warning, and Leonard stopped, stone cold.  


“Spock, it’s me, McCoy.” His eyes swept over the initial chaos and found that none of the blood was Jim’s for Spock wasn’t bathed in red, but in shadowed hues of blue and green. Usually, Spock wasn’t what he’d call a Code Red threat, but between the tension of the security team and the Vulcan’s uncontrolled Pon Farr a few days away, it was second nature to fall back on his training from the academy. He turned his palms out in a show of submission, lowered his voice. “I’m here to help Jim.”  


At his name, Kirk stirred again, his chapped lips trembling to form words, and Spock distractedly nosed at the tender flesh of his throat, wining in return.  


“Slowly, very slowly,” M’Benga whispered, “touch your fingers to his on Jim’s shoulder. Don’t make eye contact. Bare your neck.”  


Bones did as he was told, reaching a steady surgeon’s hand to where Spock gripped Jim white knuckled, and noticed the peeling skin and wet slick of green blood. His hands were shredded in textbook electric wounds, blistered and burned, but before worry could choke McCoy, he needed to get them to Sick Bay.  


“Please, Spock.” Bones flickered his eyes up to the warm light of the ceiling, Adam’s apple bobbing as he felt the Vulcan’s eyes close in on his compliant presentation, then to his fingers as they brushed his sympathetically.  


The reaction was instant, the Vulcan seizing forward, allowing Leonard to draw his arms beside his underneath the slight weight of Jim’s body, and in an odd, primal gesture, Spock pressed his cheek against Leonard’s and trembled with a broken noise.  


In the next instant, M’Benga was helping Bones lift Jim onto the stretcher and they were again sprinting their way toward the ward, calling out every piece of data as the biological scanner set to work. Spock stalked after them, protective and incessant on holding Jim’s hand, until Nurse Chapel discreetly pressed the tip of a sedative to Spock’s naked shoulder and he was out, carried to his own biobed by two other nurses.  


That had been ten hours before. Jim is stable now and Spock is taking care of himself in the emergency showers. Sickbay is silent, for the medical crew has been dismissed to their bunks while the doctors finished up.  


Jim’s injuries included broken ribs, internal bleeding, torn ligaments, two herniated discs, and a concussion. There was a seared scar ringing his neck where his captor chained him to a shock collar, and the bubbled burns mirrored those on Spock where the Vulcan suffered electrocution while he pried the metal off with his bare hands.  


“Spock’s been in there for quite a long time,”  


M’Benga might have spent his residency on Vulcan but he had little sense about this one in particular.  


“He’ll come out when he’s good and ready.” Bones depressed the plunger and fed Jim’s veins with more saline solution to cure his dehydration, trying not to focus on how brittle his own voice sounded beside the sluggish beeping of the heart monitor.  


“Make sure he doesn’t drown himself.” M’Benga says as he snaps off his gloves and disappears to sleep off his headache.  


Bones finishes with one last squeeze to Jim’s limp hand before he approaches the washroom and dares to knock. Spock has been holed up there ever since he’d woken, unwilling to be coaxed out. Not that Leonard had anything to bargain with, not with Jim still out cold.  


There’s no answer but, when he presses his ear to the door, he can hear the patter of real water against the tiles. It’s not easy to ignore Spock’s usual need for privacy but it is easy to override the key code and let himself in, ready for an attack.  


One doesn’t come though, not as the shadow on the other side of the room slumps stagnantly against the wall. The shower has run cold, the water wasted as it beats on the figure’s cowed shoulders, drenching the bent head.  


“Come on now, stop wallowing.” It’s been a long time since Bones remembers Spock looking so downcast, and for a fleeting moment he wonders if he’s safe in these close quarters. It takes only one look at Spock’s shredded hands to erase the thought. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Maybe scared a few security ensigns, but they need to be kept on their toes.” He squats down beside his friend, feeling the cold mist of water.  


Spock’s shoulders, gaunt against thin, torn skin, tighten with a deep breath and shudders on the exhale. He turns his face to Leonard, away from the spray, and the blank ink of his ruined paint emphasizes the ice of his eyes, the sallow look of his cheeks, the desperation pouring off him in waves.  


“Now look what you’ve done,” he’s using his paternal voice, the one he thought he’d lost ability to conjure after losing Joanna, as he pulls a rag from his scrubs pocket, “Gonna catch a cold you ice-blooded elf, if you keep this up.” Bones is gentle as he pins his thumb underneath the iron jaw, a pointed ear caught in his fingers, and starts to scrub it off. At first Spock weakly struggles, but when he catches Jim’s scent on the cloth, stills, and turns his face into the treatment with closed eyes.  


The flecks of dye smear and wear away, but the blue blood of Spock’s enemy is stained on him like bruises. They’ll fade, he supposes, and turns the heard in his hand to take a look at the bobbed ear he’s had to regenerate, the broken fluid of his pipped iris, the tremble of his lips as he tries not to cry.  


Leonard turns off the water spigot after he’s thoroughly drenched and Spock is clean. He snags a towel from the rack and picks up the Vulcan weight with a little grousing as he leads the man back into the light of Med Bay, to the empty bed by Jim’s.  


“Sit here, I’m gonna get you a thermal blanket.”  


“It is unnecessary-” Spock begins to say, his voice like soft gravel, but pauses at Leonard’s stern gaze. As the doctor rifles through the storage locker, cussing beneath his breath, Spock gives into what must be his human weakness, and curls onto his bed for sleep. The Vulcan in him yearns to take his mate into his arms and hide them both away in their private quarters, but he knows better than to unhook the myriad tubes and monitors from Jim, knows that there is no safer place for Jim to be than beneath the doctor’s sure hands.  


Because even with all his strength, the bravado, the righteous anger that eclipsed every other thought, Spock had been useless after he’d slaughtered the petty thug that had taken Jim. His own, frail human had thrashed in his arms, crying, afraid of the primal beast that Spock had become, and kept whimpering for Bones before he’d fallen limp, the adrenaline rush and fear pushing him into the black.  


If he was prone to it, he’d dare say the heat in his chest is jealousy, especially as he catches Leonard give a worried glance the captain’s way as he nears, but when Leonard lays the orange blanket over him, he attributes the feeling to his healing ribs and feigns sleep instantly, hoping the doctor would leave them alone.  


Instead, as he listens, Bones takes a seat at his bedside, puts his head in his hands, and chokes on his sobs, the sound cleansing and cold. And for once, Spock feels utterly ignorant.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I can't stop writing protective, rabid Spock. The following chapters will be how Spock and Jim recover both physically and mentally as well as flesh out their relationship with Bones helping them along the way. I've had some concerns on how Spock's characterization has been written. Since Vulcan's are a race which must suppress their passions for they run deeper than humans, a fact which once brought the to extinction, I've decided to include Spock dressing as a pre-reform warrior, war paint and all, when he goes to avenge Jim. This choice was made while Spock's inhibitions where thin, both due to his onset of Pon Farr and the fact that Jim has been missing for quiet some time in the hands of an unsavory enemy. His actions will have consequences on his relationship, his career, and how he sees himself. 
> 
> I apologize if that upsets any one and you do not have to read if you do not like the liberties I've taken with the characters, plot lines, universes, and stories. 
> 
> On another note, does anyone want to see this turn into a beautiful, functional polyamorous relationship with these three? Cause that's an option I'm weighing here. :) 
> 
> Comments, reviews, ideas, and kudos are much appreciated. I'd love to hear what ya'll want in the up coming chapters.


End file.
